Tontine
by TheWeaverofWorlds
Summary: Oneshot, au. When someone dies, it's the living that has to carry on. It's the living that has to find a way to say goodbye. But how? Where does one go to find the solitude where death has hidden their friend? After the war, everything changed...even their childhood haunt. But Jean goes back, he goes back for Marco. He goes back to say his goodbye.


_tontine- noun, an annuity scheme in which subscribers share a common fund with the benefit of survivorship, the survivors' shares being increased as the subscribers die, until the whole goes to the last survivor. _

The truck sputtered to a stop in the middle of a wide field. It had been on its last legs for miles, and finally it had reached its destination. In all four directions there was nothing but tall grasses of gold and mauve waving lazily in the wind. A few sparse trees populated the meadow. Jean let out a prayer of thanks before hopping out of the cab. The door slammed shut, causing birds to fly from their perches in the nearby trees. Jean shaded his eyes, taking in the sight of the dilapidated barn. Paint peeled at the weathered wood, and high above a rusted weather vane creaked in protest standing stark against the somber sky. He made his way to the door, and with a sharp tug pulled it open. It had been ages since anyone had entered the barn, and the sickly sweet smell of hay rose to greet him. Had it always been this strong? Spiderwebs hung in the corners like veils on brides. The stuffy air was thick with humidity, making Jean's breath catch. So much had changed since the last time he was here, and yet the barn remained untouched.

Jean kicked the loose straw away with his worn boot sending dust into the air. His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. Impatiently, he ran a hand through his short hair. Tears threatened to block his vision, and he found he had to sit down. He sat on one of the bales of hay, straw pricking at his legs through his worn jeans. He had driven six hours straight to get here, and sleep was beginning to tug at his eyelids. His eyes felt dry and stung, and he knew them to be red from crying. Out of his pocket, he pulled a set of dog tags. They jangled together as he gripped them tightly in his hand. The metal edges cut against his palms. From the rafters he could hear the coo of morning doves, and he saw a stray cat wander through the door with a dead mouse in its lips. Glowing eyes peered into his before turning away, a tail swung lazily in the air.

Jean would never have come here if it weren't for the promise. A dying wish couldn't be so easily ignored after all. Especially when it came from his best friend, Marco. Just being here in the still air brought memories of his childhood flooding back to him. Even when they were young, it had been full of cobwebs and dust. But without Marco the gloom of the barn seemed to intensify. Marco had discovered the old place with him. How many days had they spent sitting in the hay just like this, telling secrets and making promises? How many years wasted playing soldiers? How many hours had been used just to climb up that rickety ladder to the hay loft, only to jump down into piles of the stuff? But now the floor had rotted out, pieces of wood lay strewn about the abandoned structure. Holes in the roof allowed patches of gray sky to be seen. The place was in ruins. Perhaps, it had changed more than Jean initially thought. He supposed nothing was forever, not this barn, not the promises Marco and he had made there. It was all going to end.

In the back of the barn, Jean found an aged nail. It jutted crookedly out of a beam. Once used to hold rope, it was now abandoned. With a final squeeze he hung the dog tags on the post. Marco wouldn't have chosen anywhere else. Jean knew that for a fact. The war was over, so he should be smiling. By some miracle he had lived, he had come home. But he found it impossible to do something as simple as a smile. Outside, the sun had broken through the clouds. He could see dust motes floating in the light, and the figure of his fallen comrade saluting him. Marco was smiling just like always. Jean lifted his hand to return the gesture, but then he realized it was just a figment produced by his over-tired brain. He began the long walk back into town. Behind him the barn stood as an impassive monolith jutting up against the darkening sky.

**I wrote this in the fall as an English assignment. I thought if I changed the names maybe I could make a very ****short**** oneshot out of it, so I did. I hope it's okay, I chose not to add to it, because really what more could I say? I hope you enjoyed it, even though it's really short. Actually, tell me what you think as a review, please? Until next time, loads of kokoros~ T.W.o.W.**


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